


meat cubes

by AlasPoorYorcake



Category: Deltarune (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, Death of the Author, Hello?, It's not as kinky as it sounds, It's not kinky I promise, Meet-Cute, Overabundance of tags, barebones, bedroom door shenanigans, but not in the traditional sense, heh, i'll take a meat cube, i'm just Really at my limit with my mental illness, meat cubes? who's passin' out meat cubes?, sanster if you squint, should probably tag this as crack, to make up for the fact that my writing is barebones in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24885703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorYorcake/pseuds/AlasPoorYorcake
Summary: In which Sans' bedroom door is capricious, Papyrus is a consistently great brother, and Dr. W.D. Gaster figures out he wouldn't mind a companion to explore the Dark World with.Hijinks ensue.
Relationships: W. D. Gaster/Sans
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

You freeze with the ketchup bottle halfway to your teeth. “uh,” you say. “what.”

“Did you have someone over while we were at work?” Papyrus repeats from the kitchen, with the exact same inflection. Like he’s trying not to sound judgmental. Except he’s _Papyrus_ , so it comes out more like he’s excited that you’re being social, and that’s just kinda sad. You sink further into the couch cushions.

“what made you think that?”

“Your bedroom door was slightly ajar when I arrived home! I thought I heard voices.”

“ _my_ door was open?” Your grip on the armrest tightens, along with your voice, but Pap is too busy clanking pots in the kitchen to notice. “i thought i locked it.”

“Yes, you always do. That’s why I’m bringing it up!”

“it’s unlocked now?”

“Of course it is! Do you think we’ve been burgled?” 

You speak calmly, though your thoughts are swirling at unprecedented speeds. “you notice anything missing?”

“Not as of yet. Hm. I hope our burglar got what they needed before they left. They make not think it polite to return for a second go.”

“probably not.” You don’t make a show of sliding off of the couch, nor of putting your ketchup bottle on the side table. It doesn’t look like your door is open from here. “are the flames still going?”

Papyrus’ exasperated sigh is followed by an avalanche of metallic clanging. “I am in the kitchen, Sans, I can’t see it! Besides, they’re always going! Go see for yourself!” You catch a flurry of motion in your periphery, and barely dodge the frying pan that flies around the corner like a loosed boomerang. A moment later, Papyrus’ head comes into view. “…My bad!!”

You chuckle. “s’alright. i know you weren’t _frying_ to hit me.”

“Oh, you sneaky little— yes, Sans, the flames _are_ going!”

“heh. they’re going? guess i better catch up to ‘em before they leave.”

A pot thrown with malice is decidedly harder to dodge than a pan flung by accident, but you manage. You keep moving, up the stairs and in front of your door. The flames are, indeed, going.

“voices, huh?” You say to yourself, reaching for the doorknob. The lock on the knob shows it’s clearly open. A bead of sweat forms on your forehead as you twist the knob and nudge the door open…

…revealing the inside of your bedroom.

You shut the door without preamble, embarrassed and relieved and embarrassed at being relieved. The trip back downstairs is a calmer one. You know on instinct Papyrus does a double take when you reenter the living room, but he doesn’t look up when you enter the kitchen.

“you reheating or making a new batch?”

“Just reheating tonight! Unless you keep moving around, in which case, I think I will get nauseous and you will have to reheat it in my place!”

“hint taken,” you say. “did you go lookin’ in my room when you got home?”

“If you are wondering about the trash tornado, I moved it to the corner this morning before we left. You really should invest in a waste basket, brother, they’re all the rage nowadays!”

“ok,” you say. “but you didn’t go in my room this afternoon?”

“Really, Sans, I am trying to concentrate,” he says to the open door of the spaghetti-filled fridge, with a stomp of his boot. One stomp’s not too bad. Three’s pushing it, but you know the dog can get seven or even eight out of him on a good day. “I heard someone talking, and decided that if you were going to start bringing friends over, I shouldn’t intrude.”

“ok." Small mercies. "thanks, bro. you’re the best.”

“Indeed!” Papyrus walks up thin air like a set of invisible stairs to reach the sink, where he douses his gloves in soap and rinses them under the faucet. “So! Who is this mystery man I did not meet?”

“not sure yet. let you know when i know.”

“You know I know you’ll let me know!”

“that i do. lemme know when dinner’s ready?”

“I know you know I know I won’t have to let you know! You always know, anyway!”

“yep. careful under the sink. thought i heard the dog in there earlier.”

“Ooh, that mutt! Thank you brother, I will keep my eyes peeled.”

“heh. _eye_ don’t think your eyes need peeling, bro.”

“We have talked about delivering your punnery in the kitchen, Sans!” He scrubs at the creases in his gloves, a faint bonetrousle counting the seconds for him until peak cleanliness. “It is for making and storing food, not your japes!”

“aw, c’mon, pap. it’s the best place to pre- _serve_ them.”

“No!! Out!!” he protests. “And don’t be late for dinner!”

You leave the kitchen with a nod and a brief apology that you’ll be climbing the stairs to chill in your room, which Papyrus acknowledges with the wave of a dripping glove. You don’t wait for him to touch ground before making your journey back. The sound of Papyrus’ bonetrousle, as well as his kitchen maneuvering is a balm for your still-racing thoughts… 

Unfortunately, you open your bedroom door on autopilot, mind on reheated spaghetti and pestering dogs, and forget to make sure what you’re stepping into is actually your bedroom.

“Oh,” a man says, and in the distance you hear your door close behind you. “Well. That was unexpected.”

The world is black as ink, but the grass beneath your feet and the surrounding foliage is a hot pink. A breeze goes in one eyesocket and out the other. You blink.

This is decidedly _not_ your bedroom.

“aw hell,” you say. “paps is gonna be so pissed.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

The man offers to help you find your way back, citing a hypothesis he won’t explain. You accept, because you don’t really have any other ideas, and because he seems nice enough despite the fact that he looks like the living embodiment of a computer glitch. 

You don’t tell him that, but your eyelights sting the longer you look at him, so you conveniently take in the rest of your surroundings as the two of you walk… somewhere. Whatever this place is, it’s pretty cookie-cutter. Pink and purple gradients accented with black margins. A lush forest. 

Frankly, the man next to you sticks out like a fork in a drawer of spoons.

“I’m vaguely familiar with the layout, myself,” he’s saying. He sounds enthusiastic. “Having been here a total of three times, I can’t say I’m an _expert_ , but _generally reliable_ …”

“i woulda expected an expert to expect my entrance,” you say on reflex, because you’re nervous, and therefore reflexible. He looks at you, and you struggle to pick out his facial features. “you’re not from around here?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“travelling?”

“Just passing through.”

“that’s both of us. wish i’d come better equipped.”

“Yes, you look like you just rolled out of bed.”

That startles a chuckle out of you. “i was trying to roll back into it, actually. my bedroom door had other plans.”

“Ah. Do doorways often give you trouble?”

“just the one. we moved into the house not too long ago, it’s probably _stile_ upset at the change of residents.”

To your surprise, he picks up the pun almost immediately. He matches your permagrin. “Perhaps it thinks it’s just been taken for _transom_.”

Oh.

Oh, he’s good.

But so are you.

“heh. nah, it’s had plenty of time to _mullion_ it over. but _sill_ , it’s a struggle to reliably go to bed.” He muffles a laugh into what is probably his elbow and turns it into a cough. Your face starts to hurt.

And then he looks at you, grinning. You know you’re in for it now.

“It’s certainly a _jamb_ shame,” he says. “I’m a- _frame_ to say your sleeping habits will probably _hinge_ on your door’s _cupressaceaecous_ temperament _fir_ the foreseeable future.”

Holy. _Shit_.

“oh my god,” you pant between laughs. You can’t walk like this, so you double over in place. “i can’t breathe.”

“It appears we’re cut of the same marrow,” he says, cheeky. You don’t look up, worried that if you do he might see stars in your eyes. He continues, “though, to be frank, I am quite surprised you can understand me without looking.”

Whoops. Busted. You straighten up with a merciful shred of dignity. “heh. sorry. you just look a bit…” You trail off.

“Quite,” he says. Bits of his body cycle through textures you’ve never seen, from flowers to gears to animal parts. You can’t stare for long.

“it’s kinda jarring.”

“I’ve gathered,” he says. “No clue what’s causing it— I look quite normal where I come from. Not that I _sound_ any better, of course. And most people I know aren’t fluent in hands. Oh, but while we’ve stopped—” He points off in the distance, and you follow his flickering finger. “We’re nearly there. In the next room, there, do you see it? It should look familiar.”

“uh. yeah, it’s my door. flaming. in the middle of the forest.” You blink. “…i hope that’s not a hazard.”

You start walking again, and the man follows, nodding and squinting with one eye. You don’t think anything of it, except when you realize the expression looks familiar. Very familiar. You can’t place it, until— 

“oh. you must see like paps does,” you blurt.

“Pardon me?”

“my brother, papyrus,” you explain, tapping your temple. “i see through my eyelights, but he’s got eagle-vision. says it’s like lookin’ at rooms from a really high ceiling. s’why he squints with one eye all the time. like you are now.”

“…yes,” the man says slowly. Like he thinks you’re either batshit insane or very, very correct. You’d like to think it’s the latter. “Your brother— Papyrus— he is your biological brother?”

“yup.”

“I see,” he says. You don’t like the way the man’s face is starting to look pinched. “Very… loud? Exuberant? Says, ‘Nyeh’ every other sentence?”

“sometimes. he’s pretty cool. you met him?”

“No, but ah… he may have accidentally heard me through…” The man gestures to the flaming door you come to a stop in front of. You don’t know what he gleans from your semi-permanent expression, but whatever it is makes him say, “I was curious. It’s not every day you find a flaming door in the middle of the forest.”

“s’not every day your bedroom door leads to the middle of a forest,” you say.

“…But the flames stay?”

“they go,” you say, “it’s a thing.” You give the door a once-over. “was it locked when you opened it?”

“Well. Not when I _opened_ it, obviously. Prior to that, however…”

“so you picked the lock.”

“Of course not! I have a key,” he says, affronted, pulling a silver key out of… somewhere? You stare at it in his grip, watching it glint in the reflection of the colorful flames under the door. The door with an old fashioned keyhole.

“my bedroom door doesn’t have a keyhole.”

“Clearly, it does,” he says. This door does, indeed, have a keyhole. He inserts the key, turns it, and the door swings open.

On the other side is your house. From the second floor balcony, you can see Papyrus sitting on the couch, eating spaghetti. Going by the noise, he’s been flipping through static commercials on the television. When the door opens, he looks up. 

There’s silence, then—

“Sans? Brother, are you loitering in the doorway again? You know I can’t see you when you do that!”

“uh,” you say, glancing back at the mystery man and the entire world that has apparently replaced your bedroom. The doorway is a completely seamless portal. You turn back to your own world. “my bad, bro. i got company. don’t wanna leave ‘em alone.”

“Company?” Papyrus says, then louder, “COMPANY!! Oh, Sans, invite them inside!!”

Beside you, the man’s body flickers with what is probably an expression of panic. You shrug. It’s his call.

“Er, no, that’s alright! I was just… stopping by,” he says loudly.

It’s clear he can’t see Papyrus, but he’s squinting with valiant effort, his face almost pinched into a scowl. You turn around, and yes: in your house, on the couch, Papyrus is unwittingly matching the expression. 

For a brief moment, you get to acknowledge how inadvertently hilarious this situation is. It’s definitely making some sort of top ten list in your head.

“Oh!! Well, would you like some cold spaghetti before you go? It was originally burnt, but Sans was taking too long, and now it is nearly frozen!!”

You cough. “uh. sorry, bro. guess i lost track of time.”

“…And space, for that matter,” the man adds. You snort.

“Nyeh! I should have expected you would make friends that share your brand of humor!”

“oh my god, dude. you shoulda heard him earlier. he can _rattle_ ‘em off like you wouldn’t believe,” you say, then pause. You turn to the mystery man. “i just realized i dunno your name.”

“Oh, yes! Of course.” Thankfully, he doesn’t seem offended, which makes sense. He does seem like the type of person to neglect pleasantries. “Dr. W.D. Gaster, at your service.”

He holds out a textureless hand, which you do your best to shake like it’s totally normal. 

“doctor, huh? cool. the name’s sans,” you say. “i, uh, guess i owe you one for getting me home. you should drop by sometime, i’ll introduce you to pap for real. you can have some of our spaghetti, on the house.” You pause, then shrug. “or in it. whatever you prefer.”

For a long, long moment, it looks like he’s going to refuse. 

Then he says quietly, “Yes, perhaps I will,” and you realize with a jolt that you’ve just been staring at each other. A couple feet apart. 

Like a bunch of wackos.

Fortunately, Papyrus is well-versed in blundering through awkward tension. 

“Are you two going to keep loitering up there? I will be developing a headache soon!”

“and that’s my cue,” you say. “drop by whenever, i’ll catch you if i’m home. just… don’t let anything else in here, ok? i don’t wanna be responsible for any broken laws of reality.”

“Any _more_ of them, you mean.”

“i’m not the one with the key to another world,” you point out, chuckling. “catch you later, doc. thanks for the help.”

Gaster smiles back. “You’re quite welcome.”

You step into your house, closing the door behind you. Deep breaths, and a learning experience— now you know that you love the smell of home after a transdimensional vacation. In record time, you make it down the stairs and to the couch, where a bowl of spaghetti sits beside your ketchup bottle on the side table. After a helping of ketchup, you burrow into the cushion next to Pap and dig in.

“fanks for finner, pap.” He nudges you with an elbow, and you swallow before saying, “sorry i was late.”

“It is quite alright, brother! We can’t always predict what potentially dangerous thresholds a new house may come with!” He places a gloved hand on your skull. His voice becomes painfully soft. “I am glad you were not alone.”

Your throat tightens. You shovel cold spaghetti through your teeth and try not to think about your brother worrying about you in your absence. “nah, bro. i’m not alone. i’ve got you.”

He _Nyeh_ ’s quietly and turns to the television. “Yes, Sans,” he says. “Yes, you do.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, everyone who left kudos <3

* * *

A few days later, you’re popping home to retrieve your wallet and see the door cracked. You pull it all the way open. Two feet in front of you, Gaster is squinting like a blind drunkard.

“i’m not in,” you say.

“Clearly,” he says back.

“i didn’t think i’d see you again,” you say. “my lunch break’s almost up.”

“Ah. Another time, then.”

“yup.” You don’t leave. He doesn’t move. It’s only a little weird. “unless you wanna buy me lunch.”

He says, “Oh.” And then, “I’m not sure how I would fare on the other side of this door.” 

He’s got a point. His body is flickering less like country fireflies and more like enthusiastic christmas lights. At least his face is easier to pick out, now that you know where it is. “ok,” you say, like an idiot.

Then he says, “Why don’t I buy you lunch in here,” and the next thing you know, dew is seeping into your slippers and your bedroom door shuts behind you with a click.

“Ah. There you are.”

“yup. sorry to make you squint.”

“Not at all.”

The two of you begin to walk side-by-side, down a path you don’t recognize from last time. The scenery is astoundingly repetitive. You try to commit every turn to memory. It’s difficult, because Gaster keeps side-eyeing you with a face that swaps textures every few seconds.

“Has time passed in your world?”

“s’been a couple days.”

“You’re wearing the same clothes.”

You look down at your outfit. The same jacket, shorts, slippers combo you’ve always worn. Comfy. “i haven’t had the chance to unpack anything else.”

“Does your job not require a dress code?”

“hey. play fair. i can’t even see where you end and your clothes begin.”

“I suppose neither of us are at our best, then.”

“yep.” You eye a few strange, plump rabbit monsters passing by. They stare back, though you’re pretty certain it’s because Gaster’s body can’t make up its mind on what to be. “i’m guessing you’ve introduced yourself to the locals by now.”

“As many as I can, yes.”

“made any enemies?”

“Most of them are friendly. There’s talk of dissent in local politics, but no incidents as of yet. As a neutral party, I haven’t run into many hostile encounters.”

“cool,” you say, because, “i won’t be much help in a fight.”

“Yes, I see that. Your stats are abysmal.”

“my what?”

“Your stats. 1 ATK, 1 DEF. I shudder to think your HP follows suit.” Evidently, he realizes you’re looking at him like he’s saying gibberish, because he is. “You do not know what stats are?”

“uh, no. wanna catch me up?”

“They are…” he starts, then says instead, “Then how do you know you will be little help in an FIGHT?”

“because i’ve never been in one before,” you say. “why are you capitalizing it?”

He splutters, clearly thrown. “You’ve never—” He stops walking altogether, and you get a chill down your spine like you’ve stumbled into a petri dish under a microscope. “You must be a nonfightable NPC.”

The foliage is luminescent, bathing Gaster’s looming silhouette in a pink halo. You don’t squirm in place, but it’s a close thing. “alright, doc, throw me a bone already. i have no idea what you’re saying.”

“...Oh. Erm. Yes. My apologies,” he says. “I did not consider that our cultures may have such… significant differences.” He begins walking again, but he looks at you rather than where you’re going. “In our society, abrupt, turn-based combat is a staple. As much as puzzles are, if not more.”

“combat,” you say. “and puzzles.”

“Indeed. Admittedly, I had hoped, as a skeleton, you would have been well-versed in the latter.”

There’s not much you can say about weird skeleton heritage. You and Pap are the only skeletons you know of. “nah, puzzles would be more my bro’s thing than mine.”

“Wordplay is its own brand of puzzle. We’ve established you can appreciate a tasteful pun.”

“taste has nothing to do with it,” you say. “kinda missing the necessary buds.”

“Well, then. That will make lunch an interesting affair,” he replies, gesturing to the clearing ahead. 

You’ve arrived at some sort of low-budget bake sale, with two booths set up along the path to entice passerby. The monsters behind the counters are nothing like you’ve ever seen. Actually, it looks just shady enough to be good.

“in that case, any recommendations, doc?”

“The Hathy, there, sells Hearts Donuts, and the Rudinn has Choco Diamonds. I’ve tried neither.” Gaster stops walking. After a moment, he pulls a wallet out of the same no-place he stored the key to your bedroom. “I should be able to purchase two of each, if you are not above experimentation.”

“heh. ain’t that why we’re here?” You watch him pull out a few slips of paper. They look like dollar bills with the colors inverted. “woah. for a guy just passin’ through, you’re doin’ pretty well for yourself.”

“I have been accosted by _some_ monsters along the way.”

“…you took people’s cash?”

“They gave it willingly. One of the facets of combat that holds true in my world and this one: the winner of a FIGHT receives compensation, usually in the form of local currency.”

He hands you half of a stack of bills. You take it. “looks like you don’t have much trouble fighting.”

“I fought in a war at a very young age,” he says. “I have come to learn that the best, if not most difficult, way to resolve conflict is to not fight at all.”

You try to wrap your mind around the idea of a war with turn-based combat. It sounds ridiculous. And terrifying. “our concept of fighting isn’t as, uh. organized.” Really, that should make it seem more barbaric, but at least it’s not systemic or calculated.

“Interesting,” is all Gaster says. He steps up to the Hathy to order. 

You approach the Rudinn. “Interested in a Choco Diamond?” they mumble. “All proceeds go to Rudinn Relief Funds, I guess. It’s only 40 G!”

“forty g, huh?”

They look at the money in your hand. “That’s good too, I guess.”

“i guess i’ll take two, then.”

“Thanks, I guess,” they say, taking your money. You take two of the pastries.

“see you around, i guess.”

“Guess so,” they say.

You join up with Gaster a few paces away. You swap one pastry each and both unwrap the Hearts Donuts first. For a while, you both walk aimlessly, eating your donuts, ducking beneath the low-hanging geometric canopy and weaving along a pathway marked by burnished, pink grass.

It’s… nice.

At some point you stop eating to thank Gaster for buying. “kinda ironic. i invite you for lunch and you end up treating me.”

“I do not mind,” he says. “It is the perfect opportunity to assail you with questions.”

You can appreciate this. “well, the fastest way to a skeleton’s soul _is_ under the ribs. go ahead, doc. i’m great at twenty questions.”

“Alright,” he says. “Most monsters would balk at the idea of their bedroom door being a portal to a different dimension.”

“not actually a question,” you say. “nah, i’m not afraid. i kept my door locked when i first found out ‘cause i didn’t want pap stumbling through on accident. living with him, ya learn to embrace the weird.”

“Your brother is strange?”

“he’s cool,” you correct him. “y’know. does things most people can’t. gets himself into impossible situations. so. i grew up with a little brother that can see where i am and what i’m doing when he calls me on the phone. most things don’t surprise me.”

“You are dedicated to making your brother feel he belongs, even if he does not.”

“especially if he doesn’t. he’s my brother,” you say. “and you don’t put down the guy that does your laundry.”

“Indeed.” He finishes off his donut, and you lapse into silence for a bit. “You said you are on lunch break. Where are you employed?”

“m’not. i got a few interviews lined up today, s’all. in fact, i’m probably missing one right now.”

“You don’t appear distressed by that.”

“eh. s’worth it,” you say, jamming the last morsel of Donut past your teeth. “this is practically an interview, anyway.”

“Yes, perhaps it is,” he says. You stop chewing. You weren’t being serious, but Gaster continues, “My associates in the lab do not approve of my… visitations here. They think our time would best be spent elsewhere. It _would_ be wise for me to hire an assistant.”

You unwrap your Choco Diamond as noisily as possible. “uh. heh. what about _this_ ,” you say, gesturing to your whole self, “gave you the impression i would make a good assistant?”

“Absolutely nothing. In fact, under normal circumstances, I would have rejected you based on your attire alone,” he says. Then he grins. “But these are not normal circumstances. And in my experience, there is no greater mistake than hiring an employee without personality. Or a sense of humor.”

“i think pap would have a fit if i got a job based on my sense of humor.”

“Tell him you were hired for your expertise, then. It makes no difference to me.”

“you’re being serious.”

“I am.”

You’ve been neglecting your chocolate. You nibble on it thoughtfully. “how would you even pay me? no offense, but ‘dark dollars’ are about as useful to me as pebbles and snail shells.”

“Would you accept payment in Gold?”

You choke on your Choco Diamond.

“gold?” You give your ribcage a few thumps. “you have—” Then you remember what the Rubinn had asked for in exchange for the chocolate. 40 G. “‘g’ as in gold. as in real, actual gold.”

“Is that acceptable?”

“uh. yeah. yep. that’s fine.” That’s so much more than fine. …Never mind that that makes the chocolate in your hand worth a quarter of your house’s mortgage. “does your world have a gold standard?”

He chuckles. “Gold is our standard, yes, as it is our normal form of currency. The salary of our incoming interns tops at an hourly rate of fifteen G, or gold pieces. Would that cover your expenses?”

“sure,” you say, but your head is spinning. Fifteen pieces of _gold_ an _hour_? “what do i have to do?”

“Officially? Menial tasks. Documentation of our discoveries, dictation of notes. However, I am fairly self-sufficient, and in many cases prefer to do the minutae of the research myself.”

“ok. then unofficially?”

“Well. To be blunt, being a facet of discovery yourself, I would like your input. What I can already glean of your world is fascinating.”

“i’ve told you next to nothing,” you point out.

“Perhaps. But what you find strange is also telling. If I want to learn about a world I can’t enter, who better to act as a litmus than its common man?”

He has a point. You mull it over a bit more, until you see him already halfway through his Choco Diamond. “alright,” you say. “but i have to check with pap first.”

“Of course,” Gaster says, like that much was obvious. You like that. “In that case, I will gather the necessary paperwork to be filed and we can proceed the next time we meet.”

“cool.” He extends a hand, textured as pink as the grass, to seal the deal. You shake it. “heh. what about that? free lunch and a job. the only thing that could make this better is if it came with dental.”

“Dental?”

“don’t worry about it.”

“Well. Speaking of lunch, perhaps it is time we brought this to a close,” he says.

With your mouth full of the last of your chocolate, you give him a thumbs up. The two of you stroll back the way you came. It’s a relatively long walk, but idle conversation is enough to distract you from aching feet. That and an unshakeable sense of dread, like you’ve tipped a domino without seeing the dozen others lined up after it. You do your best to brush it off.

Eventually, you stop in front of your bedroom door. Closed, but Gaster still has his key.

“where’d you get that, anyway?” you ask, because it’s a key to your bedroom and you really should be the one handing those out yourself.

“Ah, the key? There is a very similar door in my world, except grey. It was looped around the doorknob.”

“huh,” you say. The door in front of you opens to your house. “welp. mystery for another time. feel free to pop in any time, as usual.”

“Certainly. I will be seeing you, Sans.”

“sure. thanks again for lunch,” you say, stepping through.

“Oh, Sans?”

You turn back to Gaster. He’s all squinty again. You raise your voice, just in case. “yeah, doc?”

“Perhaps you could consider unpacking some more appropriate clothing.”

You look down at yourself and shrug. “heh. no promises.”

“Goodbye, Sans.”

“seeya.”

The door shuts. You turn around and fall against it with a sigh.

That went… well.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the comments! <3

* * *

When you tell Papyrus about your new employment, he sends a colander full of spaghetti straight through the ceiling. 

The hole it leaves is quickly plugged by the tiny dog. You don’t even get the chance to make a joke about shit hitting the fan before Papyrus scoops you up under your arms and twirls you in the air like a sacrifice to swirlies.

“Nyeh heh! That didn’t take long at all! I am so proud of you, brother!!”

“yeah, wait ‘till you hear what i’m gettin’ paid in,” you say, clutching Pap’s humeri so you don’t suffer the colander’s fate. “taxes are gonna be hell to file this year.”

“Nyeh!! Taxes, shmaxes!! The fact is, you have a job!! A rather unorthodox… potentially dangerous… um, job! We should celebrate!”

He puts you down. You root your feet to the floor, watching the world revolving without you. Pap makes grabby hands at the dog in the ceiling. He’s content to pretend his enthusiasm didn’t just hit terminal velocity and clip through the kitchen floor.

“i haven’t accepted the offer.”

“What!!” Papyrus never does anything half-way. He nearly whacks the dog with arms flailing in incredulity as he turns to you. “Why not?!”

“you know why,” you say.

“I do not!! We need the money, don’t we?? You have been very concerned about those papers you try to hide—”

And, ouch. You thought you had been smooth, stashing bills in your closet. But then, Pap _is_ always in your room, cleaning up after your messes.

“—not to mention we both know it’s very not-good for you to laze about with nothing to do, and besides, you said we should settle into our new lives, and oF COURSE WHAT BETTER WAY TO SETTLE THAN TO NEEDLESSLY RISK YOUR LIFE TRAVERSING TIME AND SPACE??”

His jaw shuts with a click.

“I may have a few. FEELINGS. On the subject,” he says, sweating.

“thought you might. s’why i didn’t commit.”

Papyrus kneels to eye-level, hands on your shoulders. “Oh, but you should!! Sans, regardless of my concern, you should absolutely pursue whatever makes you happy!!”

“heh. you make me happy, bro.” You duck under his arm and pull the fridge door open to snag a ketchup bottle. “‘sides, i don’t wanna come back home one day and realize you’ve gone mamabones. you worry enough as it is.”

“Of course I worry, Sans! I will always worry! That is no reason to hold yourself back!”

“m’not.” You pop the cap on your bottle and take a swig. “look, if it ain’t a good fit for both of us, it ain’t a good fit for me. that’s all.” 

Pap shuts the fridge door and stands in front of it, arms folded. “That is not ‘all’, Sans!” He swipes your ketchup bottle, wagging it in front of you like a dog toy. “And just what do you think you are you doing?? You never eat ketchup on an empty stomach! And… last I checked, all of our spaghetti leftovers were still accounted for in the refrigerator…”

“uh. yeah.” Here you go. You already don’t like where this is headed. “i had lunch with the doc.”

“You had LUNCH!!” Papyrus repeats, looking at you like you’ve announced Christmas has been declared a biannual holiday. “Brother!! That is FANTASTIC!!”

“take a breath, buddy,” you say. “it ain’t that big a deal.”

“It is a big deal!!” Papyrus squeezes the ketchup bottle in his enthusiasm. The ceiling catches most of it. You’ll have to throw out the whole roof at this rate. “You participated in a social event with a friend!!”

Okay. That’s definitely a new low. “i’m not a recluse, pap.”

“Of course you are not!!” A careless gesture sends your ketchup bottle flying into the sink. You stare after it forlornly. “Actually, between the two of us, I would sooner be considered the recluse!!”

“nah, bro, you’re shy. there’s a difference.”

“Only marginally!” He says jubilantly with a wagging phalange. “Anyway, I am merely trying to suggest that working with this… Dr. W. D. Gaster person may be very good for you!!”

“‘good for me,’” you deadpan. “c’mon, bro. i’m already friends with, like, everybody in town.”

“‘Friends?’”

“acquaintances.”

“‘Acquaintances?’”

“i’ve _talked_ to everybody in town,” you say.

“But you open your bedroom door everyday,” he points out.

“…because that’s where my bedroom is.”

“A likely story!!” With one eye squinted, Pap has officially entered sleuthing mode. “Why do you do that so much, anyway?”

“go in my bedroom? that happens to be where i keep my bed.”

“No!! You know what I mean! Opening that door every time you come home!”

“oh, yeah,” you say. “i can’t control when the door spazzes out. but i can check if gaster’s there. he’s got a key.”

“Wowie!!” Papyrus exclaims. “You gave him a key to your _bedroom_?? I don’t even have a one of those!! You two became extremely close friends very quickly!!”

“uh.” You have never been more grateful that you lack blood vessels in your cheeks. “i guess.”

“Does that mean you trust him?” Pap says. Like it’s a normal thing to ask.

Granted, it is a reasonable question. If you took the job, you’d be completely isolated at work, with no company around except Gaster. And Pap knows your trust isn’t default. But it’s not like Gaster has given you any real reason to doubt him.

Well, that weird, fleeting feeling of dread springs to mind, but… 

_I fought in a war at a very young age,_ Gaster had said, somber. _The best, if not most difficult, way to resolve conflict is to not fight at all._

“ehhhh, y’know. i think he knows what he’s doing.” You shrug. “maybe.”

Contrary to his boisterous personality, Papyrus can be disturbingly still when his nerves get the best of him. He’s motionless as a statue when he says, “You’re not always the best judge of character, Sans. Will he keep you safe??”

“heh. if you knew what he looked like, you wouldn’t have to ask,” you say. “he’s nature’s neon keep-out sign. i’d be surprised if someone picks a fight with him around.”

“…Nyeh! Well! GOOD! As long as you are comfortable!” Pap pats your skull. At your indication, he picks you up, hitching you on his hip with one arm. You cling to his side like a spoiled koala.

“mm. speaking of comfortable,” you say, settling in. He bustles about the kitchen, tossing the ketchup bottle from the sink onto the counter and wetting a dish rag in preparation to scrub the ceiling. “how’s your uppercase feel?”

“Tender! But good! I think I may be growing into it, albeit more gradually than you did, brother!”

“sounds about right. you should take it slow. uppercase is a big change,” you say. “jeez. an’ just yesterday you were still a babybones.”

“I was not!!”

“sure you were. i saw you. you were toddlin’ around on all fours in the living room, babbling.”

“I was searching under the couch for the remote! Perhaps if I didn’t find your stash of DIRTY SOCKS instead, I wouldn’t have been muttering in such an unbecoming manner!!”

“heh heh. oops.”

“And you call _me_ the babybones.”

“aw, you’ll always be babybones to me, pap,” you say. “hey, did you catch the sign today?”

“I did. It’s switched back again. I do not understand why you keep changing it! Our house clearly prefers to be called ‘Grillby’s’.”

“aw, not you too. what’s so bad about ‘sans’?”

“Well, the guy has chronic lazybones syndrome, for one!”

“cls? that’s rough. he should probably take it easy for a while ‘till he recovers.” You let out an obnoxious yawn. “in the meantime, i guess we should re- _sign_ ourselves to stayin’ at ‘grillby’s.’”

“Sans!! I WILL drop you!”

“nah. you won’t.”

He puts down the rag and lets you slip. You slide down his form slowly, like a weighted slime. He catches you at his knees, about the time that he realizes you’re not getting off. 

But he hefts you back up with too much force, and for a moment you’re in free-fall, living the colander’s last moments.

You hit the ceiling with a thump.

And stay there.

“Sans, you lazybones!” Papyrus stomps his feet down below, twice. You can hear the squinty expression in his voice; he can’t see you. “This is no time to be lying down! Or up?? Whatever!! Get down from there!!”

“uh,” you say to the ceiling. “would if i could, buddy.”

You try to look over your shoulder at the house below, but your vertebrae aren’t designed for that kind of pivoting. It’s probably for the best. You don’t want to see how far you’ll fall.

“Nyeh. In that case. Could you pass me the colander? I wasn’t finished with dinner yet!”

You look over at where the tiny dog is squatting snugly in the colander-shaped hole in the ceiling. “maybe. i got a _ceiling_ it’s too far away. hold _up_ a minute.”

“Argh!! Sans, for goodness’ sake!” Papyrus stomps again. “I’m not holding up, you are!! Try holding down!”

“uh. k,” you say, because you don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Experimentally, you try to drag yourself along the ceiling. You don’t get far, but it’s a start. Bit by bit you move, until the colander is nearly within your grasp— 

Then gravity abruptly reasserts itself.

You must enter Pap’s vision at some point, because he catches you bridal style before you make a crater in the kitchen floor. A moment later the colander clatters onto the kitchen tile, empty.

The dog trots on air into the middle distance, looking suspiciously wider in circumference.

“Sans, are yo— YOU DEVILISH CUR!! GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!! YOUR KLEPTOVANIAICAL TENDENCIES HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF CONTROL!! FIRST MY ACTION FIGURES, NOW OUR DINNER!! SPIT THAT OUT AND APOLOGIZE, RIGHT NOW!!”

He stomps three times, and you jiggle, along for the ride. “uh. i think it’s ‘kleptomaniac’, dude.”

“NO, IT’S— that is not the POINT, brother!!” Papyrus shakes himself, and by association, you. “That dog is a tightly packaged, gluttonous, disturbingly elusive menace! What will we have for dinner now??”

“welp. you said we have leftovers, right?”

“Well— yes? Yes, I suppose we do!” Pap says, his enthusiasm bleeding back into his posture. He strikes a pose, nearly sending you aerial again. “AND!! To make up for it, I shall re-cook it so well, you won’t be able to tell it was ever left over! And if I see that dog again… well, I’d— I’d BETTER NOT see that dog again!!”

“sounds good,” you say. “maybe i’ll poke around a bit. see what’s _up_ with the house.”

“Sans.”

“my bet’s on the stairs. y’know. ‘cause they’re always _up_ to something.”

This time, Papyrus drops you for real. It’s still a gentler landing than the ceiling had been. From the floor, you make yourself comfortable and take a long look at him. He doesn’t seem as tense as he was before.

“you sure you don’t mind it, pap?”

“Reheating the leftovers? Nyeh heh! Of course not! It is an opportunity to try out the new spaghetti setting I installed in the microwave!!”

“oh. hey. awesome.” Man, your brother’s cool. “i uh. was talking about the job, though.”

“Oh! That.” He reaches across the counter and hands you your half-empty ketchup bottle. “Would it make you feel better if I said I will do my absolute BEST not to worry? Or be a— a— what did you call it?”

“mamabones.”

“Yes, that! I will not become one of THAT!!” He proclaims, then folds at the pelvis and squints very hard right in your face. “Are you eased?”

You chuckle. “yeah. i guess i am.”

“EXCELLENT! That was very… _EASY_! Nyeh heh heh!!” With that, he clambers onto the counter, wet rag in hand, and begins blindly scraping at the ceiling. He’s two feet to the left of any ketchup stains you can see, but he’s clearly determined, so you let it be.

“heh heh. good thing i’m easy to please.”

There must be something odd about your voice, because Pap stops scrubbing and looks down at you.

“You know, Sans, I do not say this very often,” he begins, “but for all of your laziness and punnery, you really are a very great role model! And an amazing big brother!!”

You choke on your ketchup.

Papyrus doesn’t notice. He just keeps going.

“And who knows! Perhaps one day, I, too, will have friends to eat lunch with, and coworkers to give keys to my bedroom to! One day, brother, I… I hope I can be as GREAT as you!!”

And just like that, like he didn’t just cleave you into little skeleton bits on the kitchen floor, he goes back to scrubbing.

“you already are,” you say hoarsely. There’s ketchup clogging your throat and something else burning your eyesockets. It becomes very, very hard to speak, but you push through anyway. “Papyrus the Great.”

“Yes, EXACTLY! PAPYRUS THE GREAT!!” he says with flailing limbs. The ceiling’s hole count goes up by two, but only because his skull doesn’t quite breach the plaster. “OWW!! Jeez!! Why is our ceiling spiky!?"

You close your eyes, brimming, and raise your ketchup bottle in a toast.

Papyrus The Great, indeed.

* * *


End file.
